


With Hands In His Pockets

by hafital



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, First Time, Flirting, M/M, These two are experts at flirting let’s be real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 22:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17068145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hafital/pseuds/hafital
Summary: The lure of Immortal presence teased at Duncan’s senses as he carried his two bags of groceries down the Rue de St. Germain.





	With Hands In His Pockets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz/gifts).



> This is some old school D/M. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thank you to my beta!

The lure of Immortal presence teased at Duncan’s senses as he carried his two bags of groceries down the Rue de St. Germain. Three weeks had passed since Kalas’s arrest, and Duncan was just beginning to hope all would be quiet for a while longer. But the Immortal presence acted like a handkerchief waving from a distance, inviting him to come closer. It all but said, “Yoohoo! Yoohoo! Come find me!”

Grumbling under his breath and clutching his groceries, he looked for a likely source of the presence, but he saw nothing obvious. It was a typical Parisian winter day, with low gray clouds and a hint of snow. Pedestrians pushed past him, irritated that he’d stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Cars honked, tangled in a tight intersection. He could find no dark figure lurking ominously around a corner. 

Then, from down on the quay, a noisy commotion caught his attention. He spotted what seemed to be a gathering of university students, like they were having a party. Except they were standing in a haphazard group, and appeared to have gathered around a few specific individuals. It looked more like a duel than anything else. 

Immortal presence flared again, and one of the men in the center of the gathering turned enough for Duncan to see his profile. The shock almost caused Duncan to drop his baguette and artisanal butter. 

Methos. Duncan figured he’d never see him again, but there he was, surrounded by a small mob. From across the quay, a smile twitched on Methos’s lips when he saw Duncan, but he turned back to his… friends? Enemies? Angry fellow students? The crowd was boisterous, but the tone was less one of anger, and more…chanting and clapping.

Duncan had two, maybe three, seconds where he refused the bait, decided he would just march on home and leave Methos to whatever messy business he had gotten himself into. Those three seconds then turned and laughed in Duncan’s face. 

What in the hell, he thought, heading for the stairs leading to the quay. Still carrying his two grocery bags, he made his way over to the crowd. The closer he got, the clearer the situation became. Four men, including Methos, were standing on the lip of the quay, facing the Seine, while the crowd cheered and catcalled. 

The men and women gave Duncan odd looks as he pushed his way to the front, his two grocery bags in front giving him added size. “Psst,” he said, getting Methos’s attention. “Pssst.”

Methos turned, his smirk accented by the curious twitch of his eyebrows. “MacLeod,” said Methos, very proper, in contrast to the light of mischief in his eyes.

“Uh…Adam,” replied Duncan, pronouncing his name slowly. “Good to see you.”

“Quite. What’s for dinner?” he asked, glancing at Duncan’s grocery bags.

“Oh,” said Duncan, peering at Methos and at the others that stood with him, and then at the crowd. They did indeed look like university students. “Some salad. A little bread. Chicken Basquaise. Maybe some wine. What’s going on over here?”

Methos glanced at his cohorts. “I’m not entirely sure,” he said, speaking from the side of his mouth, conspiratorially. “But I think it’s some kind of native custom where young men challenge each other to jump into the Seine with nothing but one’s underpants.”

The three other men were egging each other on, working the crowd to cheer in their favor rather than their competitors’. Seine bathing was sometimes popular during the summer months, but they were barely into April and the temperature was a brisk six degrees Celsius. 

“You can’t be serious,” said MacLeod, completely aghast. “It’s colder than a witch’s—”

“Pointy nipple, yes, I’m well aware,” said Methos, grinning. He turned and yelled an insult in French back at the other three idiots. One was teasing the crowd by lifting up his shirt and pretending to strip. The crowd cheered. 

“Didn’t you take an unwanted dip in the Seine just a few weeks ago? You’d think that’d be plenty for you.”

“That,” said Methos, with a hand to his chest. “Was to save my life. This is for…” And Duncan swore Methos’s eyes twinkled as he leaned in. “Honor? Pride? I was challenged and couldn’t back down? It was a dare. I couldn’t say no.”

At that moment, four very lovely young women appeared, one for each of the men. A pretty redhead came up to Methos. She gave him a kiss on his cheek, pressing her ripe body against his. 

“A dare, huh?” said MacLeod, frowning. He wanted to put his hands on his hips, but forgot he was carrying his groceries and almost dropped them. He did a quick grab to save his dinner. “Is that what you…do…” Duncan waved a hand at Methos, and nearly dropped his food again. 

Methos had the grace to blush. “Well,” he said, trying for aloof and dismissive. “There may be some sort of benefit. I’m not sure. Haven’t really looked into it.” He smiled at his lady friend. She trailed a suggestive hand down his front. 

Duncan frowned even further. “You’re not really going to jump in that river, are you?”

Methos opened his mouth to answer, but someone blew a shrill whistle and then addressed the crowd, speaking rapidly in French. 

“Moment of truth,” said Methos. The pure mischief in his expression aught to be illegal, thought Duncan. Methos tried shrugging innocently, but Duncan wasn’t buying it. He removed his coat and handed it to Duncan. “Wish me luck. Hold this for me?”

“I’ll do no such thing. This is madness,” said MacLeod, but he took the coat, conscious of the implicit trust Methos placed in him handing over his weapon, and now he had to juggle two grocery bags and a heavy coat with a sword in it, just as the man with the whistle began counting down from three: _Trois, deux, un!_

All four men, including Methos, stripped as fast as they could down to their underpants. As soon as they got to bare skin, they started hopping from foot to foot, shaking their head, rubbing their arms and hands. They were each different shades, from brown to pasty white. Methos was by far the palest of the lot, standing out like a beacon, revealing a lean physique. He stood taller than the rest, with long legs and broad shoulders. MacLeod half expected Methos to be wearing some flashy novelty underwear, but they were a simple pair of boxers. Methos turned and waved at the crowd and the girls all cheered, loudly. Someone whistled. He waggled his eyebrows at Duncan.

“Honestly,” said Duncan, a little mesmerized by all that skin. “What _are_ you doing?”

The man with the whistle, who seemed to be the emcee of this insane event, began rapidly commenting, like they were all at a racing event, asking which of the four was starting to falter and who would be the first to jump. The two on Methos’s right began pushing and shoving, just as Methos waved at the crowd again. They knocked into Methos, who yelped, windmilled his arms around, then lost his battle with gravity and fell over into the Seine. He managed to take one of the others with him, and then all four yelled, toppling one after the other like dominos into the water. 

The crowd gasped, then cheered as they rushed to the edge of the quay. In their eagerness, Duncan was almost pushed in right after Methos, groceries and all. He teetered on the edge, and peered down into the water. Methos’s head popped out first, then the others one by one. The crowd yelled in triumph right into Duncan's ear.

Wincing, he called down to Methos. “How goes?”

Wet hair covered one of Methos’s eyes. He managed to glare with the other one. “Don’t be an ass. Get me out of this!”

Duncan laughed. The nerve, he thought. Someone had thought to bring towels. The foolhardy men were helped out of the water and wrapped up in dry towels and blankets and given hot cups of coffee to help warm up. Methos was surrounded by more than one pretty university student, and seemed to be enjoying himself. 

“Well,” said Duncan, not entirely sure why he felt so irritated. “You seem to have everything well in hand. I’ll be off now.”

“Wait,” called Methos, disentangling himself from his more amorous admirers. He said something quickly to his friends that Duncan couldn’t hear, waved at them, and then hurried after Duncan. “Would you mind too much if I… um… used your shower?”

Duncan stopped and stared at Methos.

“What?” asked Methos. “Come on. Eau du Seine is not really my favorite cologne.” 

His friends called after him. “Adam! _Ne pars pas. La fete, c’est chez Henri,_ ” they said. He turned and waved at them again.

“Are you going to make a habit of this?” asked Duncan.

Methos literally batted his eyelashes at Duncan. “Maybe.”

Duncan burst out laughing. “Oh all right.”

Methos grinned. He gathered his clothing and shoes and half-nakedly followed Duncan home. 

When they reached the barge, Duncan turned to Methos, holding his groceries. “Can you reach my keys?” he asked. 

Methos stepped closer, still wrapped in his towel, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He didn’t take his gaze off Duncan as he reached into one of Duncan’s pockets, and then the other, searching for his keys. Why it made Duncan sweat, he would have denied to his grave.

“Take your time,” he said, teasing. 

Methos smirked, turning to unlock the door. 

An hour later, Methos was dressed again, freshly bathed, and angling over the galley counter. He stuck his nose over the different pots and pans. Miraculously, Duncan’s groceries had survived the afternoon’s adventures, and he had almost finished preparing dinner. 

“Don’t you have a party or something to go to?” asked Duncan, blowing on a spoonful of sauce, then holding it out for Methos to taste. Methos covered Duncan’s hand to keep the spoon steady while he met Duncan’s eyes and swallowed. Duncan ignored the twang on his nerves, like a plucked harp string.

Right, thought Duncan, taking note of Methos’s expression that said the sauce tasted perfect, and the little smirk on Methos’s lips afterwards. He began to suspect he was in way over his head with this one. “And miss a free meal?” said Methos. “It can wait. I’ll arrive fashionably late.”

They plated their food, and then spent the next half hour in satisfied silence as they ate. “I’m definitely making a habit of this,” said Methos.

Duncan huffed, but he couldn’t really be annoyed. This was Methos, the oldest Immortal, choosing to hang out with him when he could be out partying with a bevy of young coeds. They gathered their plates and put them in the galley, then sat down on the couch. Duncan poured them both another glass of wine. 

“I still don’t get the purpose of that little display,” he said. 

Methos shrugged. “Nothing to get. It’s just showing off. You know, trying to impress… well, everyone, I guess. They’re kids. Having fun. Flirting. In fact, that’s what they call the challenge: _le flirt avec la mort._ The flirt with death. Kids. What can you do?”

He said the last with hooded eyes and a slight hint of irony.

“Hm,” said Duncan, sitting back against the couch. “Bit melodramatic. Must not have worked all that well if you’re here with me and not out with that redhead.” 

The lighting in the barge was low and warm, and the sunset painted the portal windows with swaths of burnt color. Methos pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure it didn’t work? I’m rather certain it did.”

“Uh…” said Duncan, laughing. To his ear, his laugh sounded high and uncertain, and only served to mortify him more. That harp string was once again vibrating deep inside him.

A slow smile spread across Methos’s lips as he took another sip of his wine. He was all languid stillness until he shifted to set his glass down on the coffee table, and leaned in closer. Duncan’s skin flared with awareness, tingling all over, and sweet Jesus, the guy hadn’t even touched him yet. 

“I think I better go,” said Methos, shifting to the edge of the couch. 

“Uh…what? Oh, right. Sure,” said Duncan, fumbling. It took a moment for his brain to catch up with his mouth. What just happened? Duncan wondered if what he thought happened happened or if it had all been inside his head. Had he jumped to the wrong conclusions? Surely Methos, the oldest Immortal, hadn’t been flirting with him? He felt his face heat up at what a blunder that would have been. Or maybe Methos was just the type to flirt with everyone. 

“Thanks for dinner. And for the use of your shower.” Methos searched around for his coat, and Duncan rose to get it for him. 

“Maybe next time don’t jump in a river, if you want a meal, huh? Just call. Or even just show up.”

Methos chuckled, shrugging into his coat. “Careful what you wish for,” he said, pausing at the door. It seemed to Duncan like Methos had more to say. Like he wanted to ask Duncan something, or invite him to go to the party with him. Or maybe it was something completely different. The moment suspended between them, and Duncan held his breath, wondering which way it would turn. “Until next time.”

Duncan watched him leave, a sense of melancholy washing over him. 

A few weeks later, he had occasion to go to the Sorbonne University main building in Paris to meet with a client interested in some 19th century pieces. 

He stood by the window in his client’s office, admiring the edifice of the Sorbonne building, the lovely architecture. On a whim, he turned to his client. “Do you know about that tradition, among some of the students here? Where they challenge each other to jump in the Seine? They call it _le firt evec la mort_.”

“Where they do what? Flirting with death? What are you talking about?” asked his client, looking up from inspecting the photographs Duncan had brought. “No, I have never heard of this. But there’s no telling what the young do these days.”

“What about a graduate student. Adam Pierson. Do you know him?”

“Ah yes. Him I do know.” His client inspected Duncan more closely. “Are you interested in Linguistics, MacLeod? I could see about setting up a meeting?”

Duncan hesitated. Just for one moment where he thought…. “No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not necessary.”

He turned back to the window.

~*~

Two days after taking Kalas’s head, the quickening continued to rattle around Duncan like a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. Amanda had left the evening before, and without any other distraction to help settle his energy, Duncan’s restlessness drove him from the barge. He threw on some sweats and went for a run.

His usual six mile course took him through a winding path around his neighborhood, zig zagging over the bridges and back and forth across both banks. In a forgotten corner of the left bank, he slowed down when he felt the first tingle of Immortal presence, accompanied by the shouts and yells of children. 

It was a game of street football, stretching over an empty back alley that ran along the Seine, abandoned by businesses and residences alike, left to the folly of neighborhood children. In the middle of the game stood Methos, arguing like a referee. 

It was a surprise to see him, but not as much a surprise as it had been the other day when Joe had shown up at the barge with the oldest Immortal in tow. The surprise of Methos grew less and less with each appearance. 

The kids ranged in age from ten or eleven up to grown teenagers, both boys and girls. It seemed to be barely controlled chaos, with lots of shouting and laughing as they all argued, trying to organize teams while most of the children ran around and kicked a ball between them. 

When Duncan approached, Methos glanced over with a knowing smirk that made Duncan want to check and see if his fly was unbuttoned. He was wearing sweats, though, so no fly this time. 

“Just in time,” said Methos. “Why don’t you take the other team?”

Several of the kids turned to Duncan, a little more cautious of him, this new stranger in their midst. But a few began to beg. “Monsieur! Monsieur!” 

“Take the team? Take them where?” said Duncan, eyeing Methos but smiling at the children. “What’s going on here?”

“Just a game,” said Methos, both innocent and mischievous and how does he do that anyway. “If you care to play? My team against yours. What do you say?”

More begging came from the children, who jumped up and down, clamoring for his attention and tugging on his sweatshirt. 

“Come on, MacLeod! Don’t keep us waiting,” said Methos, trying to hold one of the balls out of the way of the taller kids, laughing when they got it from him. 

The scene quickly devolved into chaos, but MacLeod tried to organize his team and they were soon playing a rigorous game of football. He learned that Methos was devious and tricky, and if he wanted his team to win he had to rise to the occasion. The game became very competitive. Although the kids were doing most of the work, he built up a sweat, more than he had on his run, coaching and yelling, trying to outsmart Methos’s team. The kids were eager, with several wily candidates among them just as sneaky as Methos. They had names like Alphonse, Simon and Inaya. Noor, Jibril, and Léonie. They played deep into the day, until one by one they began to leave, waving goodbye, saying they had to get home for dinner or they had other plans, or they just got bored. Duncan began to wonder if they all had homes, and if he should give any of them cash, but he hadn’t brought his wallet on his run. 

“Relax,” said Methos, holding a football. One of the last remaining kids knocked it out of his hand with a cheerful laugh and a wave as they skedaddled for parts unknown. “They had fun. You’re not required to save any of them.”

He huffed. But with the just the two of them, Duncan grew a little awkward. “This was… unexpected,” he said to Methos. “Do you do this often? Come down here and play street football with a bunch of urchins?”

Methos didn’t answer but looked thoughtful. He kicked the football that had been left behind. He kicked it over to MacLeod, who kicked it back. “Why don’t I return the favor,” said Methos. “You know, from before. My flat isn’t far. Come over. I think I have some food I can feed you.”

It was on the tip of MacLeod’s tongue to refuse, but there was something in the glint in Methos’s eyes that he couldn’t name, couldn’t give voice to. “All right,” he said. 

Methos’s new flat was very much like his previous flat, full of eclectic art and strange nooks and crannies. Duncan wondered if he had parties for his university friends. “Why’d you move?” he asked. 

“Oh, I don’t know. A deranged Immortal knows my name, and knows where I live? Why’d you think? Standard policy. I almost left the city.” He handed Duncan a beer. 

“Hm. Point,” answered Duncan. He downed most of his beer, not realizing how thirsty he had been. “Why didn’t you?”

Methos took a swallow from his own bottle. “That’s a good question. If I discover the answer, I’ll tell you. Speaking of deranged Immortals, how are you feeling?”

Duncan choked on his beer, and Methos laughed, handing him a napkin. Duncan tilted his head. “Is that what today was about? How did you know?”

Methos shrugged. “Experience. There are easy ones and… not so easy ones. That did not look easy. They stick sometimes, like glue. Or cement. I don’t know. My analogies are failing.”

“Like resentment,” said Duncan, staring down at his feet, the bitter taste of the quickening at the back of his throat. He swallowed the last of his beer. He did feel better though, after his run and playing football for hours. Part of it was the physical exertion, but most of it had been the energy of the children, their bright faces and enthusiasm, innocent and uncorrupted. It countered the heaviness of the quickening inside him. 

When he looked up from the floor, Methos was studying him. “Have you ever been young in this city, MacLeod?”

“What do you mean?” In comparison to Methos, Duncan felt horrifically young. Green and fumbling and out of his depth. But he didn’t think that was what Methos meant. 

“I mean, have you ever been young in this city? Have you gone out all night? Have you gone to clubs and danced until dawn? Making all manner of questionable decisions. Or spent hours going from one bar to the next, making friends as you go, drinking and listening to music and talking until you’re hoarse?”

Duncan had to think about it. There had been nights with Tessa, when she was still in her twenties, but not like how Methos was describing. He furrowed his brow in thought. 

“Come out with me.”

“What? Tonight? Right now? I don’t even have my wallet.”

“We can get your wallet. Is that your only excuse?” 

He stared at Methos, this enigma of a man. He seemed ever changing and mercurial, like the river. But he was here in this moment with Duncan, and he might not be there tomorrow. “The oldest Immortal wants to go clubbing?” he said. 

Methos grinned. “You make it sound like a misadventure.”

Duncan thought it was madness – this would be a theme with Methos, he realized – but he said yes. A couple of hours later, bathed and dressed and with his wallet in his possession, Duncan found himself going from one bar to the next. They met a few of Methos’s friends and spend hours talking about nothing, sharing drinks, passing cigarettes, existing in a cloud of smoke. When one bar closed they found another. The night was a blur of alcohol, of too many bodies pressed into small spaces. Of wandering the streets looking for another place to inhabit. Duncan learned the comfort of Methos at his side, of turning to know he was there as they walked down the street, laughing at nothing. They played chess with strangers on the back stoop of a bar, noise and lights spilling out into the street. At four in the morning, they were led to a warehouse rave. It was dark and dreamy inside, the music loud, slow and rhythmic. The posters outside the rave called it house music, and Duncan wondered if that was because it went to every corner of the space, taking over. 

Methos took Duncan by the wrist and pulled him onto the dance floor. There were too many bodies, too dark to see, pressed close together, and Duncan closed his eyes and grasped Methos by the waist, fingers hooked into his pockets. His heart beat in time with the music. It was surreal and dreamlike and therefore possible in that moment. But only that moment.

When it was almost dawn, and the bars and clubs closed, they returned to the barge to sit and watch the sun rise. They sat shoulder to shoulder, talking a little but mostly falling silent. MacLeod felt the ease of it, the simple comfort, and sensed the rattling energy inside of him vanish. He felt alive but tired and he fell asleep right there on the deck of his barge. When he woke again, morning light spread across the sky, and Methos was gone. 

A few days later, he returned to that abandoned alley. There was an old soccer ball left behind, but no sign of the kids from before. No one played football, and it echoed with disuse. Beside the alley, the Seine flowed downstream.

~*~

It probably shouldn’t have surprised MacLeod to discover that Methos was a terrible roommate. He was irritating, inconsiderate, and moody.

The angel on his right shoulder reminded Duncan that Methos was getting over a loss. And that he’d been very helpful, actually, in getting Gina and Robert back together again. Most helpful. That was worth something, right?

But then the devil on his left shoulder protested loudly. Yeah, but he tricked you out of your barge! Don’t forget that bit of skullduggery. He broke your vase. He took your keys! He inhabits your home like he owns it. 

Since then, Methos had stolen and given back the keys to the barge three times. They were currently back in his possession.

“Don’t you think it’s time you got off the couch,” said Duncan, standing in front of Methos with his hands on his hips. The Seine rocked the barge up and down. 

“My barge, my rules,” said Methos, not looking up from the book he was reading as he turned the page, his feet up on the coffee table. 

“No,” said Duncan in his most argumentative voice. “It is not your barge.” He march back and forth, forcing Methos to move his legs. 

“Excuse me,” said Methos, snatching his feet back. “Do I come into your home and start abusing you?

Duncan could only sputter. “Okay, that’s it,” he said, coming after Methos with both hands. 

“No, I don’t want to,” said Methos, but he was laughing a little, trying to retreat backwards into the folds of the couch. 

Duncan made a grab for Methos’s flailing, kicking feet, and managing to catch both of them. “It’s a gorgeous day. You’re going outside for some fresh air.”

“I went outside yesterday. That’s plenty,” protested Methos. 

In a genius move, instead of fighting Duncan by kicking and twisting from his grasp, Methos went boneless. Dead weight. Very much like a child refusing to go to his room. Duncan dragged him from the couch, and Methos slid off of it like unformed goo. It was harder than Duncan thought, to drag Methos across the floor of the barge. Methos bumped his head when he slid off the couch, and then, with his arms spread out, promptly got caught against the furniture. 

“Ow,” he said, laughing, his shirt and sweater riding up to reveal his white belly. Duncan lost his footing, and fell down fully on top of Methos. “Oof, get off me, you behemoth.”

But they were both laughing now. Duncan bore his weight down on Methos, pinning him to the floor of the barge, chuckling as he turned so they lay facing each other. His laugh faltered, gazing down at Methos. They lay in the space between couch and table, pinned with not much room to wiggle. Legs tangled together, their groin, stomach and chests pressed close. “Hullo,” said Duncan. 

Methos’s bird bright eyes frowned at him. “You weigh quite a lot,” he said. 

“Are you going to play nice?” asked Duncan.

“Oh absolutely,” said Methos, and with a display of strength that Duncan could not have predicted, he hooked one arm and leg around Duncan and flipped them over so Methos was on top.

Stunned, Duncan laughed, causing Methos to shake with him. Duncan couldn’t help it – he gazed fondly at him. It was a choppy day on the Seine. Lying on the floor of the barge, he could feel every dip and sway of the river, lifting them up, then sinking down again. Some of the fight went out of Methos and he relaxed his weight onto Duncan, resting his head on his shoulder. Duncan felt the press of Methos’s breathing, the tickle of his hair. 

Methos’s shirt and sweater were still twisted halfway up his torso. Duncan brought his arms around him. Carefully, he skimmed his hands along he bare skin of Methos’s back and sides. Methos flinched, as if concerned Duncan might tickle him, but Duncan only tugged gently on Methos’s clothes, pulling them down to their proper place. 

“You’re all right,” said Duncan, holding him. Another thirty seconds drifted by with the sway of the river. It was alarmingly comfortable having the weight of Methos on him like that. He could get used to it, he thought. Then, without warning, Methos tensed and tried to grab hold of Duncan’s hand. 

“You pilfering, sneaky… give it back,” cried Methos, trying and failing to get hold of Duncan’s closed fist. Duncan was laughing, holding on to his keys with a tight fist, picked from Methos’s pocket without his knowing it. 

“I’m sneaky?” cried Duncan, outraged but laughing as he elbowed Methos and they scrambled away from each other, knocking the coffee table onto its side and pushing the desk askew. Things toppled to the ground as Methos wrestled to get the keys back again. They sprang onto their feet, circling around the upturned furniture. Methos lunged, but Duncan neatly sidestepped him. “Give up,” he said. “You lost. The barge is mine. I have the keys.”

Methos narrowed his eyes and looked like was going to attack, but then just as suddenly he stood up and shrugged. “All right,” he said, apparently doing as Duncan asked and giving up. “You win. The barge is yours.”

“That’s right,” said Duncan, awkwardly. “It is. Mine.” 

“You know what? I’ve imposed long enough. You’ve been more than kind. And generous, letting me stay here. But, I’ve clearly outlived my welcome. I’ll just get my things. Let you get your life back.”

“Right. My life,” said Duncan, feeling a surge of regret, something akin to panic. But he caught the gleam in Methos’s eyes, the impish grin. He waggled his finger at Methos. “Nice try, old man. It’s not going to work.”

Methos laughed warmly, raising his hands in defeat. They both began to pick up the overturned furniture. Methos returned some of the fallen items to their rightful spot and Duncan pushed the couch back into position. 

“But you know,” said Methos, in a quieter tone of voice. He didn’t meet Duncan’s eyes. “I should get on with things. I can’t hide out here forever.”

“Well,” said Duncan, rubbing at his chest. He was suddenly regretting everything. “If you must.” He stood beside Methos. “You know, you’re always welcome here.”

Methos smiled warmly, and he patted Duncan’s arm, his hand lingering. They returned to putting order back in companionable silence. A minute later, something niggled at the back of Duncan’s mind, and he checked his pocket. The keys were gone again. He turned to Methos, but without looking at Duncan, Methos sprinted for the door. 

“Why you, get back here!” Duncan gave chase, laughing as he caught Methos around his middle, hauling him back into the barge.

~*~

When Duncan returned from Bordeaux, the weather settled into the gray fog of late winter and early spring, with storm gray skies, mottled with pregnant clouds that threatened rain.

He had meetings in the city with two of the auction houses, brokering deals for one of his clients. The minutia, the details of paperwork and delicate negotiations, the entirely different world of stuffy art curators and soft spoken voices—so far away from that bunker—served as a decent distraction. For entire minutes at a time, Duncan managed to forget what had happened in Bordeaux. But then it would all come back again, and his heart would sink. 

In his suit and tie, he walked home from rue Drouot, his head full of numbers and dates, while Kronos’s quickening settled into his bones. He took a wandering path that led him far afield of the barge, meandering on the opposite bank of the river. When he got to the water, he stopped and watched the birds flying, swooping over Notre Dame, birdcalls piercing the air. 

Half of him expected to find Methos somewhere along his route, so when he felt his presence and then spotted him on the quay, it didn’t surprise him. He wanted to call out a greeting, ask the old man what he was doing there, cheerful at the chance encounter. But of course, it wasn’t a chance encounter, and he didn’t call out. 

It ached, seeing Methos’s familiar profile, his silhouette. Methos had a pink nose and pink ears from the cold. Hearing his footsteps, he glanced at Duncan but didn’t say a word, kicking a rock into the river. The barge could be seen from where they stood, at a diagonal on the other side. 

“What? No jumping into the river today?” asked Duncan. He heard the hurt in his voice and regretted it as soon as he spoke. “Where are all the coeds?”

Methos smiled. “Bygone days. Happier times.”

“Hm,” said Duncan. Not far from where they stood, he saw the stretch of quay where he and Methos had first taken a walk together on the day they met. Across on the other bank was the abandoned alley where they’d played street football. The Pont de la Tournelle stood just on the opposite side, where Methos had held Duncan’s sword to his neck. It seemed they could map their relationship all along this river. 

He watched Methos kick another rock. He managed quite a distance, and it plopped into the water far enough that Duncan couldn’t hear it splash. 

With nothing else to say to each other, Duncan thought he should leave. It was already awkward and stilted enough. He opened his mouth to say some form of goodbye when Methos spoke first.

“I didn’t want to add you to my long list of regrets. I know that’s not an excuse. It’s not meant to be. And it isn’t the only reason I never told you.” Methos turned to look at him, his eyes matching the dark moss of the river. “I didn’t want to change the way you look at me.”

He couldn’t tell if the color on Methos’s cheeks came from the chill in the air or from the effect of his words. 

“I used to wonder what was taking us so long,” said Duncan. “This…” he made a hand gesture between them. “Whatever this is. That day, after Kalas. And again when you jumped in the river, with that ridiculous display. I hesitated; you pulled away. In Seacouver…There was Alexa, of course. The moment passed, didn’t it?” He shrugged. “Things change. I figured, you didn’t want that from me. And that was fine. We were friends. That was what was important. Now, I wonder if you were sparing us. Me, or you. Or both of us.”

“MacLeod,” said Methos, trying to interrupt. But he shook his head, at a loss. 

“I guess I can’t say that it wouldn’t have,” admitted Duncan. “Changed how I looked at you. If you’d told me before. How do I look at you? I’m not even sure. But I have to think it would have been preferable to this. We’ll never know, will we?” 

The color drained from Methos’s cheeks. He looked singularly alone and cold, shivering in his thin duster, no gloves on, no hat. His nose and ears were still pink, a sign of life. He smiled, bitter and spare, eyes squinting against the cold and the glare of the river. “I’m not brave like you are, Mac. You’re quite fearless, you know.”

“You’re no coward,” said Duncan.

“I’m not? I’m not talking about fighting, or challenges or even running into a burning building. I’m not talking charging in and saving the day, MacLeod. That’s child’s play. I’m talking about this. Here, the two of us. When you have lived as long as I have, this is terrifying.” He shook his head again. 

Duncan had to laugh at that. It was rather mirthless, but still genuine. He couldn’t help it, seeing Methos locked in some ageless internal battle with himself. He didn’t entirely blame him, though. So much could have been avoided, the pain and loss, the sense of betrayal. He felt like he didn’t know who Methos was. He wondered if the man he’d known before was maybe a work of fiction. But who could say that it would have been better if he had told Duncan before? If he’d learned one thing from Methos over the years, it was that you couldn’t change the past. And they were both alive, and he still cared for Methos. Undeniably. 

“Come here,” said Duncan, taking Methos’s cold hands in his. They were dry and rough. He placed them in his coat pockets, grasping tight with his own. Methos balled his fists but Duncan didn’t let go. It brought them face to face. He could tell even this simple act was too intimate. More intimate than a kiss, maybe. He wondered what it would be like to kiss Methos. He wondered if he’d ever get the chance to find out. Methos held himself apart, turning his face, wanting to pull away. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s not a marriage proposal, Methos.”

Methos snorted, but he took a breath, and met Duncan’s gaze. In his pockets, Methos’s hands relaxed, their fingers tangled together, warming up. It took another thirty seconds, but Methos stepped closer, and then rested his forehead on Duncan’s shoulder. A tourist barge sailed past, sloshing water. The wind whipped around them, while the birds squawked over Notre Dame. A few passersby on the quay gave them weird looks, but Duncan paid them no mind.

“I’m not very happy with you,” he said. “And I don’t know how to feel yet. About what happened. Who you are. Who I am. How it all played out. What we are to each other.” Methos lifted his head to look at him. “So, let’s start over. Just don’t jump in the river this time, okay?”

Methos smiled, eyes full of wonder and confusion, but he nodded, and Duncan kept one of his hands in his as he led Methos back across the river to the other side.

~*~

First, Joe left. Duncan thought maybe Amanda would stay for the night, but then she left as well, kissing his cheek, giving Methos a hug. He turned to Methos who started cleaning up the champagne glasses and tidying up the galley without having to be asked. It should have sent up a red flag, but it didn’t. He’d never admit it, he’d lie under oath, and no amount of torture would wring the truth from him, but he loved having Methos in his home. He’d loved it from the first.

“Why don’t we leave that for the morning,” he said. 

“Oh. Sure,” said Methos, wiping his hands on a rag. Then the moment rang long and tenuous between them. “I guess, I should get out of your hair. You’re probably tired.”

Duncan froze for a second, then nodded, leaning against the galley counter. Of course, Methos would leave. He was always leaving. He tried not to show what he felt, the tightness in his chest. He smiled. “Right. It has been a long day.”

Methos smiled back. It was all very polite and restrained and false. He looked around for his coat, finding it on a hook by the door. 

“Methos,” said Duncan, waiting for Methos to look at him. “Thank you…for everything.”

Methos blinked at him, his arm half way in the armhole, lapel folded awkwardly, slow to put the rest of his coat on the right way. Duncan expected one of Methos’s reassuring arm pats, or even a squeeze of his shoulder. He would say, “Of course. Think nothing of it,” and then be off, and Duncan didn’t know when he would see him again. 

Instead, he paused at the door, his coat still askew. Duncan couldn’t see his face, could only take notice of his broad shoulders and the way his head titled forward, the pale skin of the nape of his neck. “Duncan,” he asked, one hand still on the door. He turned, and Duncan saw the small crease between his eyebrows. “Would you care to go for a walk? With me?”

“A walk?” asked Duncan, glancing out one of the windows. “It’s a bit late, isn’t it?”

“It’s not that late,” said Methos. “It’s a lovely night. Take a walk with me.”

Duncan remembered that it was actually a rather damp and wet night. He studied Methos who remained unmoving by the door, neither in nor out, awaiting Duncan’s decision. Without a word, he stood and drew near to Methos to retrieve his coat, never taking his eyes off of him. 

He let Methos lead, and they took a long rambling path. It was very close to the same route Duncan favored for running. They passed all their familiar haunts, walking shoulder to shoulder. Methos did most of the talking, but the conversation didn’t go anywhere, remaining on light topics, easy and companionable. Duncan was grateful for the time with Methos. It eased his heart a little, after that dream from earlier, that alternate might-have-been. 

“I’m thinking of selling the barge,” he said. 

Methos stopped to gape at him. “You’re not serious.”

“I am,” said Duncan, pausing with him. “It’s seen me through many years. Feels like change, though. Doesn’t it?”

“I…no. I mean, yes.” Methos shook his head. “Sell it. Why not? But, where would you go? Would you remain in Paris?”

Duncan shrugged. “I’m not sure. I haven’t made any decisions yet. Doubt I’d be able to stay away for long,” he said, with a smile. Methos gave him a hesitant smile back. Duncan gazed at the dark Seine lit up with streetlights, and Paris glittering around him. “Paris will always be home.”

Methos fell silent, and they continued walking until they’d wandered back to the barge again. They went up the gangplank but Methos hesitated before going in. They stayed on the deck, and Duncan leaned against the side of the cabin. 

“What is it?” he asked Methos.

Methos was still frowning, a crease between his eyes. “Guess I never thought of you leaving.”

“I’m not. I’m still here.” 

“Are you?”

Duncan put his hands in his pockets and wrapped his coat closer around him. “Maybe I just need a reason to stay,” he said. 

A light entered Methos’s eyes, and he nodded, stepping closer. Duncan’s heart sped up and he widened his stance to let him in between his legs. Methos slipped his hands into Duncan’s pockets, fingers weaving together. They created warmth and Duncan opened his coat to let Methos in. 

“Do you think I would leave you?” he whispered. 

Methos pressed closer, cold nose against Duncan’s neck. He shook his head. All he did was shift in Duncan’s arms so they were face to face, searching with his eyes, before he leaned in for a kiss. 

Oh, thought Duncan, so that was what it was like. 

A simple searching kiss, until Methos sighed and Duncan took a breath, and sought more. Methos opened up to him, and Duncan made a noise in the back of his throat. They parted, stared at each other, and smiled. Duncan was fascinated by the plumpness of Methos’s lower lip, and before he knew it, they were kissing again. He settled in for some good kissing. 

Awkwardly, he shifted around, trying to shuffle them closer to the door. Methos still had his hands in Duncan’s pockets. Neither wanted to part from each other, but Duncan couldn’t see. 

“Wait,” he said, honey in his veins making him hungry for more. 

“Wait for what?” asked Methos, kissing him again.

“I… don’t know,” answered Duncan, letting Methos push him where he liked. 

It was only when they both almost went over the side that Duncan paid any attention to the fact they’d missed the door to the barge entirely and were in danger of falling over. 

“Woah,” he said, pulling Methos in from the edge. “That was close. No flirting with death tonight.”

Methos laughed, and clung to Duncan. “Hm, maybe a little flirting.”

Duncan brought Methos in for another kiss, this time finding the door and guiding him down into the warmth and light. 

In the morning, light streamed in through the windows, falling over the bed. Duncan woke to the gentle sway of the Seine. He felt warmth next to him, and he turned to see the sweep of Methos’s naked back among the bedsheets. Ah, he thought, he’s still here. Duncan laid a hand against the nape of Methos’s neck. His skin was warm. 

Methos turned over, blinking, slow to wake. He rolled onto Duncan. “You make a lumpy pillow,” he mumbled.

“Hm, such complaining,” said Duncan, settling Methos into his arms. 

He ran his hands up and down Methos’s back, massaging gently. Methos purred, shifting as other parts of their bodies began to wake. 

With kisses along Duncan’s clavicle, then up his neck, Methos raises his head to look at him. “I could make a habit of this,” he said. 

Duncan smiled. "You'd better."

**Author's Note:**

> “The water sustains me without even trying  
> The water can’t drown me I’m done  
> With my dying.”
> 
> \-- “The Water” by Johnny Flynn and Laura Marling


End file.
